


February Fifteenth

by halo21



Category: Bright Eyes (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Anorexia, Bulimia, Depression, Eating Disorders, F/M, Nude Modeling, drinking buddies to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23977369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halo21/pseuds/halo21
Summary: "midnight, february 15, 2001.she smiles at me from across the living room, looking at me like she isn't sure why i'm there.and so it begins."🖤in which a small-time model buys a singer-songwriter his first legal drink, thus beginning a complicated love affair.
Relationships: Conor Oberst/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer Dawn Stevens is a beautiful wreck. 
> 
> She spends her free time attempting to ward away the artists who pay her to undress for them, - as well as partying as hard as she can, for as long as she can.
> 
> Conor Oberst is trying to seem okay.
> 
> He's making plenty of music, and that should be all that matters. Not the fact that winter depresses him, that he drinks to stay sane, and that maybe, - just maybe, - he might actually be sick. 
> 
> When the two meet at a party on the eve of Conor's twenty-first birthday, Summer figures it's her duty to take Conor out for a drink. But that night stays with the two of them long after the sun comes up. 
> 
> Even if both of them are dying, Summer makes Conor feel alive. She makes him want to write honest-to-god love songs. 
> 
> Problem is that Summer is everyone's muse, and Conor's just her drinking buddy.

_**Conor** _

Midnight. February 15, 2001.

She smiles at me from across the living room, looking at me like she isn't sure why I'm there.

And so it begins.

I'm standing off to the side in a corner when her eyes find me. Her bright pink lips curl into a smile before parting. She looks up at the guy standing next to her, says something to him, and shakes him off of her arm before beginning her journey towards my place of isolation.

I look down into my red cup, dread rising in my stomach.

I don't particularly want to be spoken to. I'd be perfectly content to just stay here like this, by myself, watching the snow fall outside the window as the cheap beer I'm drinking does its part in thawing out my insides.

Yeah, yeah, — I know that totally defeats the purpose of a party. I've heard it all before.

But this girl doesn't know that, with her tight-lipped smile and her white-blonde hair, shining bright beneath the dim light.

For whatever reason, it's clear that she's got her mind set on me.

No matter how close she's getting, I don't offer to run.

She's plenty close right now, showing no signs of making a detour towards a vacant bathroom or a better looking guy.

She stops right here. In my corner.

With me.

Cautiously, I lift my eyes from the bubbling warm beer in my hand. Unlike most of the people at this party for artsy, loser types, she's extremely attractive, — and conventionally so.

That does even more in the way of scaring me shitless.

What could this girl, — and her laughing blue eyes and perfectly smooth skin, — possibly want to do with me?

She parts her painted lips to speak.

"Hey, kid," she says. "What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be at home with your mama?"

She smiles a wide smile, revealing a row of teeth that are, to my surprise, rather crooked. "This party is for big boys, you know."

My stomach turns. I tighten my grip on my cup within my sweaty palm. Though I know that I'll most likely puke before the end of the night, I do not want it to be now, only halfway into my first drink.

"Actually," I say, hating the quaver of my own voice, "I just now turned twenty-one."

She stares at me, arms crossed over her chest, incredulous.

She doesn't believe me. That's nothing new, but I still despise it.

Assuming that I live that long, I'll be questioned for my admission into the retirement home.

"Really?" The two-syllable word falls from her mouth, slow, like she really is speaking to a child.

"Really," I confirm. I focus on convincing my body not to shake.

_Jesus, Conor. Get a grip. She's just a bitchy girl. You dealt with plenty of those in high school... which was, in fact, years ago._

But my will feels so fragile with her icy eyes fixed on me, seeming to question every atom of my being. "Can you prove it?" she challenges.

"Yeah, actually." I switch my beer to my other hand, diggimg for the wallet in my pocket. I retrieve my driver's license and hand it to her. "See?"

She stays silent for a while, appraising my ID. Her eyes move over it as she reads it once, maybe twice, selected portions of my identity laid out for her to read, — full name, eye color, height, address. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, feeling unreasonably vulnerable.

Meanwhile, the girl is squinting, holding my license up to the light. Apparently, this is the final test; looking pleased, she passes it back to me.

"Well, I'll be damned," she says. "Guess you technically did..." She casts her gaze towards the clock on the wall before turning back to me, that sly smile returning. "If you were born within the first fifteen minutes after midnight, that is."

I shrug, tucking my license back into its safe place. "You'd have to get ahold of my birth certificate in order to be privy to that information."

She laughs, a sound as pretty as her face. It's sort of infuriating.

The scent of her perfume washes over me as she leans back against the wall, the warm skin of her arm pressing against mine. The contact is sudden, unsolicited, but I don't try to distance myself from her.

The last time I was this close to a girl, it wasn't long before I was inside of her. The next morning, she was gone.

I didn't see her again after that.

I try not to think about this, — loneliness is a horribly addictive drug. Instead, I turn to look at this girl in the here and now, close enough for me to examine the visible facets of her identity, just as she examined mine.

Her hair is long and straight, as pale as the moonlight that shines through the window to illuminate it, pulled back at her thin white neck. Her eyes are light, but dusted with dark makeup, as if she wants to hide the fact that her existence itself bursts with life. Her body shines, wrapped in some tight pink number that screams _lookatmelookatmelookatme._

I am looking, and, maybe due to my already foul mood, I'm not quite sure how to feel about that.

The girl casts her light eyes upwards to meet mine. Her lips part, revealing those crooked teeth again. Even this youthful imperfection looks smug on her, — like she was above the painfully awkward stage of braces, so she just skipped over it.

"Aw, come on, Conor Mullen Oberst," she says. I flinch at the fact that she felt compelled to say my full name, as listed on my ID, — it seems alien, intimate. "Why do you look so blue?"

I sigh, straightening my spine. "Don't know," I reply. "Maybe because it's my birthday, and this past year didn't meet any of my standards." I meet her eyes again. "That's pretty disappointing, because who knows how long they've got, anyway?"

Her imperfect teeth disappear behind her perfect lips again. She stays quiet for a while, probably thinking about what a pathetically depressing bastard stands beside her.

Just as soon as her smile faded, she perks up again.

She grabs ahold of my arm. "Come on, Conor," she says, her speech slow again, — this time in a way that seems oddly encouraging, rather than condescending. Encouraging. She tugs at my sleeve. "I am going to buy you your first drink."

Pointedly, I look back down at my Solo cup. "Um... Well... I've been drinking for a while..."

She shakes her head, hopefully causing at least one overly manicured strand of hair to fall loose. "Your first _legal_ drink, then."

I stop, stare at her.

White hair. Blue eyes. Snaggleteeth. Anticipation, making the air around us hum with something I'm certain nobody else at this party can feel.

Except maybe her.

I blow out a sigh, hoping not to seem too eager. "Fine," I agree. "But first, I need your name."

_Something to_ _remember_ _her by._

She nods. "Summer Dawn Stevens," she says quickly. "Now, come on." She takes my beer from me, then takes me by the hand.

With that, she pulls me out into the biting cold of a Midwestern winter's night, pouring the remainder of my drink into the grass on our way to hail a cab.

And that's how it starts.

🖤

_**Summer** _

This is how it starts.

The clock strikes midnight. Valentine's Day is officially over. Cinderella is set free.

I blow off my current Prince Charming, — some gangly chainsmoker by the name of Chad.

Even as I look up at him, faking adoration with fluttering eyelashes, I despise him.

He thinks he's so much more brilliant than he truly is. He eats, sleeps, breathes, sweats, cries, and bleeds pretension.

I spent a whole week in his musty apartment, lounging with my legs seductively thrown over the edge of the sofa. Periodically, he popped his greasy blonde head from behind the canvas, tugging at his cigarette contemplatively each time before flashing me a thumbs up and returning to work.

As he smoked and painted and my legs cramped up, I developed high hopes for the end product. When he handed me back my robe and turned the painting around last night, however, those hopes were immediately dashed.

It was godawful, — not even quality enough to hang in one of the kitschy local restaurants for patrons to stare atuntil, they lose their appetites. I could just barely recognize my own naked form, — and when I did, I was kind of ashamed of it.

No way did I want people to see that lopsided, sloppy mess and assume it was in any way an accurate depiction of what I looked like under my clothes, artistic license or no.

That said, when I find my ticket out of our partnership in the form of a skinny, miserable-looking dark-haired boy, I jump at my chance to unlatch Chad from me.

"Hold on," I tell him, keeping that sultry tone I am always sure to use on my artists. "I think I see somebody I know."

Chad nods, releasing me.

Gullible bastard.

I smile and turn on my heel, knowing I'll never bother looking back at him again.

_Au revoir, Chad. Good luck finding another girl to pose for your shitty paintings._

Though it'd likely be wise to embrace my time as a newly-free woman, I immediately find myself making my way towards the sullen boy in the corner. He stands, looking from his drink to his Converse and back.

He's pretty. He seems at least slightly mysterious.

He looks inwardly tortured.

He's my next artist. I'm sure of it.

And so I sidle right up to him, teasing and flirting, hoping to pique his interest just as he has piqued mine.

For the most part, he seems uninspired at best, frightened at worst. Luckily for me, however, he seems too lethargic to flee, staying slumped against the wall.

I continue to prod him, harping on his age, — he's got the perfect cherubic face for that method. Finally, he decides to bite, taking out his wallet to proudly display his seemingly real ID to me.

His license states that he is Conor Mullen Oberst, 5"9, brown-haired and brown-eyed. Lives smackdab in the middle of Omaha. Born on this day, twenty-one years ago.

There's my in.

I'll be damned.

So I take this sad puppy of a boy outside to hail a cab with me, holding onto his clammy hand with the one of my own that I am not using to wave down a taxi. When the cab stops, I pull him into the backseat with me and direct the driver to the shabby but vaguely artsy bar downtown. The one that has at least two representations of my likeness hung on the walls.

He seems comfortable when the two of us step through the door, like he's been here before. I lead him to a table beneath a watercolor of a blonde woman, sporting somewhat abstract bare breasts. I glance at the frame smiling.

Brad did that one.

That guy was alright.

When the waiter comes to attend to us, he cards Conor, and I order two tall, cool lagers, as well as an apple pie for the two of us to share, with a scoop of French vanilla ice cream on the side. Conor nods along, seemingly approving of my choices.

Once the waiter is gone, I point towards the picture frame.

"See that?" I ask.

Conor nods. "Yeah."

"That's me."

He pauses, leaning in to look at the glass-enclosed painting. He tilts his head to the side, examining it closely. He looks back at me, seeming to judge my authenticity.

I just smile sweetly, hoping that I look trustworthy. "It's true." I prop my elbows up on the sticky surface of the table before stage-whispering my confession of identity to him.

"Conor. I am a _nude art model_."

For a while, he sits and stares at me.

Awkward. He is so very awkward.

This observation is only solidified as his face flushes bright pink. He averts his eyes from my face to the table.

"Well," he mutters. "I'm a musician."

My heart drops.

He's an artist, yes. Just not the kind that I was hoping for.

That said, I'm already buying the boy his first legal alcoholic beverage. I might as well make the most of it.

"Really?" I ask. "Would I know anything you've done?"

"Maybe." He shrugs, rubbing his thumb over something that someone carved into the table. "I've played in lots of bands... Park Ave. Desparecidos. Bright Eyes..." He stops, seeming to deeply consider something.

The waiter comes back and places our drinks in front of us.

Conor picks up his mug and takes a long hearty sip. When he places it back down, his demeanor changes, — he doesn't seem quite so stiff anymore, his shoulders not so hunched, his eyes not so full of sorrow. He almost looks relaxed.

"Damn." I laugh, taking a sip of my own beverage. "You weren't kidding about having been a drinker for a while. You look like an old pro."

He looks up from the table, eyes connecting with mine before he lifts one finger to his lips. " _Shhh,"_ he says. "The waiter might be listening."

Simultaneously, we burst into a quiet fit of giggles. With that, the awkwardness between us begins to slide down and melts away like the condensation on our drinks.

Over the course of the next hour, I have two beers. He has three.

We both do our part in putting away the pie and ice cream as we lightly discuss our backgrounds, in none too much detail.

We don't talk family, money, or romantic conquests. Mostly, it's about our careers, — seemingly, the most defining aspect of both our lives.

He's written songs and played guitar almost all his life. I've used my body to my own advantage since the seventh grade, when I first noticed the paperboy riding past my house multiple times a day as I lay tanning in my swimsuit.

"But don't let that fool you." I wave my finger at him sternly. "I mean, so what if every artistic guy in the city might have seen me naked? I can play hard-to-get with the best of them."

Once again, Conor gets quiet. This time, he takes in my real face and body as he seems to mull over whether or not such a statement could be true.

I can't read him well enough to know what conclusion he comes to. All I know is that he's turning red again.

An hour and a half after we walked into the bar, Supersonic's "Closing Time" crackles over the radio, signaling in universal bar-language that it's time to wrap everything up.

A look of disgust washes over Conor's face as he looks up at the ceiling. "I fucking hate this song."

"Me, too." I reach for my purse, placing our total plus change into the check that the waiter has long since brought to us. "Let's go ahead and get out of here, before it runs this beautiful evening."

With that, the two of us venture back out into the night.

We walk up the street, side by side. We're quiet as we listen to the bits and pieces of our fellow nightowls' conversations as they pass us by, punctuated by the sound of tires upon the road. I cast a sneaky glance at him out of the corner of my eye.

He's cute enough, with his shaggy brown hair and his perpetually-frowning mouth.

If only he painted.

Suddenly, he staggers to a halt. He looks at me, his expression suddenly looking oddly guilty. "Excuse me for a second."

And then I'm watching Conor Mullen Oberst trip into a side alley, falling to his knees as he retches.

On autopilot, I kneel behind him, pulling stray strands of dark hair from his face.

Then he stops.

We go back to the silence as we sit motionless for a while. Now I'm the one feeling awkward and guilty.

He only had three drinks, and he threw up.

Great.

That's my fault.

A cool breeze passes through, ruffling my hair. I think I see him shiver.

Racking my brain for what might comfort me if I were in his shoes right now, I tentatively place a hand against his back, rubbing gently.

"Conor?" I whisper.

With that, he jerks upright, stumbling over himself as he stands. "It's alright," he says. "I do that a lot."

He turns around, wiping at his mouth. "I'd better get a cab back home."

I stand back up, watching him carefully. "Are you sure?" I ask. "Do you need to see a doct-"

"No," he says forcefully. "I'm fine, Summer. Really. I'm gonna go." He turns away from me as the sound of wheels on pavement approaches again. "In fact, there's a cab."

I watch without a word as Conor waves down the taxi, climbs into the car, and pays his fare, leaving me alone as he takes off into the night.

I stand, hugging myself as the cold bites at my skin. Though I know I really shouldn't, I feel sort of abandoned as I wait for the next yellow cab to drive past.

This is how it starts.

I'm pretty sure this is how it ends, too.


	2. Two

**_Conor_ **

When I wake up, I have no idea when or how I got to bed.

My brain's foggy from something that can't possibly just be alcohol, and my eyes burn from something that can't possibly just be crying.

In fact, they feel like they're bleeding.

I sit up, feel the headache of guilt attack my brain. Standing makes me feel motion sick.

_What the fuck did I do?_

Knowing exactly what my priorities are this morning, I stumble towards the bathroom, trying my best to keep my command over my own body.

Somehow, I manage to make it there successfully. I stop in front of the mirror, locking eyes with my reflection.

Jesus Christ. My _eyes._

I cringe at the red pooling at the bottom of my lower eyelids. This isn't a smoked-too-much-pot or didn't-get-enough-sleep kind of red.

It looks like blood.

Lucky me. For my twenty-first birthday, I get a burst blood vessel.

I groan my displeasure and turn on the faucet, splashing cold water onto my face. Slowly but surely, the cool against my face wakes me up, bringing me back to reality. Reminding me just what happened last night.

I didn't bother much with substances, — just beer, three out of four of which were purchased for me by a pretty white-haired girl who looked kind of like Brigitte Bardot.

The two of us spent the last two hours of the evening talking in the corner of some humid little bar.

She pointed to what seemed to be her naked likeness on the wall as we shared a calorie-laden plate of warm apple pie and melting ice cream.

She talked about how the boys in her old neighborhood spent a lot of time watching her growing up, and, looking at what she grew into, I thought I understood why.

She asked me about my music, acting politely interested despite the fact that recognition never seemed to dawn for her, — and maybe I was glad for that.

I considered her proud assertion that she was a _nude art model_ , looking back and forth between the painting and the girl. She looked up at me with her spoon hanging out of her mouth, and I felt my face get hot.

Then the bar closed, and the two of us ventured back out into the cold together. She stayed by my side, not offering to leave me behind, and, though I wouldn't come right out and say it, I was really beginning to like her.

I wanted to stop and look at her for a while, see what she looked like with tiny flakes of snow in her hair, all of her washed in moonlight. I wanted us to climb into another cab together and head back to my place.

I wanted to feel closeness again, with this girl.

So why didn't I?

Because of the fucking apple pie.

Suddenly, my stomach rolled, reminding me that I was bound to reject any food put in my system, regardless of how good the sweetness of it tasted in the moment. Dairy mixed with alcohol, volatile, too much. I was getting lightheaded.

Feeling the blood drain from my face, I muttered some apology before falling to my knees and puking all over the place.

Embarrassing. It was so embarrassing.

Still, when I put my head back up, I felt fingernails lightly scratch from my neck down to my back.

When I turned around, she was still there, looking worried for me.

Not disgusted. Not sickly amused. Not indifferent.

Worried.

That's when the half-drunk dumbass within me told me to bolt.

I stood back up, a slew of dismissive apologies coming from my mouth. She continued to watch me, her pale eyes suddenly sad, begging for a better explanation than the one I gave her.

I told myself not to think about that, to forget it all. I waved down a taxi and gave the driver my money, telling him to take me back home.

I left her, standing in the cold, arms wrapped tightly around herself as her profile faded from my view. The last thing I remember is the regret that set in once I was on my way back, knowing that I wouldn't see her again.

My final words to her come back, a haunting echo like the voice of a ghost.

_I'm fine... Summer._

Summer. That was her name.

She looked like sunlight, melting the ice on the ground. Sunshine and blue skies and everything I'm not.

And she's gone.

Anger wells up inside of me without warning as I meet my own bloodshot eyes.

"You fucking idiot!"

My voice echoes off the bathroom walls, bouncing back to slap me in the face. My own insult, thrown back at me like a boomerang.

This is how I start my year: staring at my own bleeding eyes, hating myself. Pondering whether I should punch the mirror or puke again.

I decide that neither would be worth the effort.

Instead, I brush my teeth and comb my hair, trying to convince myself to start again. I tell myself that there will be more girls, that she probably meant nothing at all in the long run. That I'm stupid to even keep thinking about her.

I finally leave the bathroom, stopping in my bedroom along the way to pull on some random T-shirt and pair of jeans. I grab my shoes, pull them on, and keep moving.

I only stop in the kitchen to grab my car keys and mark the day off the calendar. The occasion is written in the box in my own handwriting, as if I really needed to remind myself: **Conor's 21st birthday.**

Not 'my.'

'Conor's.'

I cross off yesterday, — Valentine's Day, — and put down the pen.

Then I pinch myself as hard as I can.

This only results in drawing more blood, of course, as if I needed that.

I stand there for a second, with my bleeding eyes and my bleeding arm. I breathe, in through the nose, out through the mouth, making myself aware that I exist.

Maybe that's what I need to achieve this year: not being so fucking detached from everything.

Yeah. That sounds good.

I grab my car keys and force myself to smile.

I, Conor Oberst, am taking myself out for my birthday.

🖤

I stop outside of the record store, looking for my sunglasses. I pat the collar of my shirt, the pocket of my jacket, the pockets of my jeans. I don't find them.

Well, shit. They must be at home.

I force myself to grin and bear it. So what if anybody sees my red eyes?

Who will worry about it, other than me?

The bell on the door jingles as I say _fuck it all_ and walk inside.

As soon as the door closes behind me, Mike looks up from his magazine and steps out from behind the checkout counter, smiling broadly.

"Hey, man!" he greets me, sauntering over to stand beside me. He claps a hand down on my shoulder in a much rougher fashion than I would like, leaving me cringing, wondering if I heard something crack. "Happy birthday."

"Thanks." I shift, attempting to subtly free myself from his grip.

Mercifully, Mike seems to get the hint. He lifts his bear paw of a hand, allowing me to stand fully upright again as he continues to talk.

"I've missed you the past couple months. Guess you've been busy, though." He strokes his goatee contemplatively. "So, how've you been? How's the music coming along?"

"I've been fine," I lie. "Working hard on a few projects. Writing a lot. Recording some at home."

"That's great to hear," Mike replies, overzealous as ever. "Truth be told, I was sort of worried you'd fallen off the face of the Earth. Just keep on your grind, man. You're on your way to the big time."

My throat starts to burn. I swallow, hoping that my stomach isn't threatening to spill its contents again.

"I don't want the big time."

I'm pretty much saying this to my shoes, — that's where my gaze is fixed, anyway, as the words leave my mouth without my asking them to. I'm not even quite sure that Mike heard me.

Apparently, he did, because he heaves a sigh almost the scale of his gargantuan body.

"Oh, Conor." Disappointment laces his voice as he shakes his head. "Humble, humble Conor. Just as self-deprecating as they come."

Much to my chagrin, he claps his hand on my shoulder again.

"Quit feeling sorry for yourself, kid, and go buy yourself something pretty."

He gives me a light shove that I know was supposed to be good-natured. And yet, as I stalk off into the rows of used vinyl, I find myself seething.

 _Quit feeling_ _sorry_ _for_ _yourself, kid. Yeah, Mike, easier_ _said_ _that done._

_You're just excited about the extra money some new CD sales would bring in._

I ruminate over the fact that Mike is a greedy bastard as I flip through a bunch of jazz albums, — though the fact that I'm about to give my own money over to him is not lost on me. My hands shake, and I find myself longing for a cup of coffee and a cigarette.

I'm considering walking over to the coffee shop and coming back later when someone calls my name.

"Conor?"

I lift my head, turning in the direction if the voice that definitely doesn't belong to Mike, soft and unsure.

I look across the aisle, and there she is. Her.

_Summer._

My breath hitches as I see her in the daylight.

She looks much different than she did last night. Her tight pink top has been abandoned in favor of blue jeans and a long black coat, the white hair that she kept in a tight ponytail hanging loose down her back. Either last night's makeup or lack of sleep shadows her eyes.

I clear my throat, wiping my palms on my jeans.

This is it.

The world is giving me a second chance.

"That'd be me," I mutter, sounding wholly unsure of myself.

Wordlessly, she walks down the aisle, coming to stand by my side. She tilts her chin up so that she can meet my eyes, her face carrying an expression of grave concern.

"Good God," she says. "You look like shit."

I chuckle. "Well, thank you."

Summer doesn't laugh. She just keeps staring at me, jaw set. She looks so terribly solemn that I consider the possibility that it is not my birthday at all, but a strange vision that I'm having in my last few moments of a coma, mere moments from my imminent demise.

"Seriously, Conor," she says. "What the hell happened to your eyes?"

I shrug, going back to flipping through a stack of records. "Mike punched me in both," I reply. "Said it was a birthday tradition for men my age."

Summer sighs, sounding and looking utterly resigned. And still, she stands next to me, watching as I pick up another album.

Finally, she cuts through the silence between us. "I'm really sorry about last night," she begins. "If I had known—"

I stop flipping through albums, my eyes locking with hers. "It's not your fault."

As soon as the words leave my mouth, both of us freeze again.

Summer stares at me curiously, as if she knows exactly just much truth about myself is wrapped within her exoneration.

I look back at her, challenging her to make her guess, to figure it out.

To tell me what's wrong with me.

But Summer says nothing, and I'm not about to volunteer to her the little that I know myself for free.

So I throw up my white flag, hoisting my small stack of records up and heading towards the counter, back to Mike.

"I'm going for my birthday coffee after this," I say. "You wanna come with me?"

**_Summer_ **

Conor drinks his coffee like most artists I've known do: black, with a cigarette in his other hand.

He tugs on said cigarette occasionally, causing the old lady behind us to shoot him dirty looks. He ignores her, bloodshot eyes set on something just outside of the window of the coffee shop.

I can't believe that he actually happened to show up at the record store, — the place where I'd hoped to find him once again, or at least traces of his existence that might lead us back to one another.

For a good thirty minutes before he appeared, I had stood in front of the local events board, trying to find the name of some band he'd mentioned the night before. I racked my brain, trying to recall the names he'd listed. Time after time, I came up empty, frustrating myself greatly.

I didn't quite know what it was, but I was convinced now that I would meet Conor Oberst again, even if it took all my life.

So I could figure out why he looked so terribly melancholic in the first place. Why he felt the need to escape me as soon as he showed some form of vulnerability.

And then, out of nowhere, he appeared before me, fate's answer to my silent pleas.

Now, unfortunately, I just find myself with more questions.

Namely: why did he invite me for coffee if he isn't he talking to me? And why are his eyes bleeding?

He sighs, puffing out another plume of smoke. He reaches for the napkin dispenser, pulls a napkin out to tap the ashes out on.

Feeling rather uncomfortable, I shift in my seat. "Conor?"

He looks up from the ash, eyes swimming between honey brown and bright red. "Yes?" he asks coolly.

"I have an appointment for a job in like, thirty minutes." I smile at him apologetically. "So if you've got something to tell me, I'd suggest..."

He shakes his head, returning his attention to the cigarette butt. Apparently, it's much more interesting than me. "I didn't bring you here to discuss anything in particular, " he says. "I just... figured you might want some coffee."

I look at him: this sad, skinny boy, frowning down into his coffee mug on his birthday. My mind goes back to a few hours ago, when he was on his hands and knees in the alleyway.

Once again, I say his name tentatively. "Conor?"

He lights up a new cigarette, not looking at me as he challenges me in return. "Summer?"

I hesitate for a moment before coming out and asking the question that I know should follow. "Are you okay?"

I sit, patiently waiting for his reply. It never comes.

I open my mouth again, picking up where I left off. "Because I know what it's like. To not be okay, I mean." The silence offers another brief interlude before I deliver the most crucial part of my message.

"I'd be there for you, if you needed a friend."

Finally, he straightens his posture. He pulls the cigarette from between his lips, grinning after he exhales a puff of smoke.

"You know, Summer," he says quietly, "I'm not quite sure that I am okay. And that's not really your responsibility, but..."

He grabs another napkin from the dispenser, reaching for something beneath the table. He comes up with a pen, pushing it towards me along with the napkin.

"I'll give you a call," he says, "if I ever need a drinking buddy."

I nod, pulling the napkin into my hands and beginning to write down my number. I stare down at my own writing when I'm done, wondering how far the title of 'drinking buddy' goes for him, if he ever _will_ call me.

And that poses yet another question: why do I care?


	3. Three

Conor

11:00 PM, February 22. 

Five things sit in front of me: a notepad, a pen, my guitar, a flask, and a pack of oyster crackers. 

The lights are low. Either I can hear an owl hooting somewhere outside of my window, or I'm exhausted enough to be having auditory hallucinations. 

I sit, desperately trying to think of words that seem to get stuck halfway to the page. I attempt to conjure up some metaphor, some allegory, something that actually means something to me. 

I never write anything down. For once in my life, I feel as though I have nothing to say. 

It's a miserable feeling, being this uninspired. If I have nothing to write, nothing to sing or scream about, then I'm pretty much useless.

As I mire in my own frustration, I realize that I've chewed more on my pen than I have on the crackers.

Figuring there's no use in it now, I sit my pen down and shake a few of the octagon shaped crackers from their package into my palm. Trying not to think about it, I pop the handful into my mouth as if they were pills.

I chew and swallow, feeling the hunger that has begun to fade into the background of my existence vanish to some small extent. Then I pick up the flask, washing it down with the burn of straight whiskey. 

Some might say that I eat like a bird and drink like a fish. I say that I eat like an artist (starving,) and drink like any folk singer should. 

When I put it that way, it sounds just a bit less disturbing. 

If I were to go outside and light a fire to sing around, people wouldn't look at me with mock concern, asking that ever-present question that really has become the bane of my existence: what's wrong with you, Conor?

They'd probably just gather around and listen, maybe sing along. 

Because then I wouldn't just be Poor Sad Conor, who sulks and pouts and sucks the fun right out of everything. 

Then I'd be Conor, the Musician, who is allowed to scream and be sad and angry and hysterical. Hell, he's encouraged to be that way. 

Once I'm less human, assuming the role of the tortured artist, people stop caring about how much I drink, how little I eat, why I'm so fucking upset. 

At that point, my misery is their entertainment. 

To some extent, I guess that's sort of dehumanizing. But I really don't mind it one bit. 

The way I see it, it's something to live for.

I wish I were back onstage.

I think of the last album, the energy in writing it, recording it, then singing the words to maybe a hundred people at the time, all of them packed into basements and small venues. I think of the release of pent-up energy and frustrations, of how, no matter how nervous I was, I could look around the stage or into the crowd and genuinely feel like I had friends. 

Even surrounded by wholly unfamiliar faces, I knew that, at least for a while, I wasn't alone.

God, I miss that. 

Just as soon as I've placed my flask down, I'm picking it up again. Closing my eyes, I tilt it back, feel the warmth running through my body like the touch of a lover.

Soon enough, the flask is empty, and I am nothing more than a puddle of alcohol and self-pity, my limbs feeling only as stable as a gelatin cake. I cast a rueful glance over to my guitar, groaning as I push it away. 

The next thing I know, I'm lying down with my cheek pressed against the carpeted floor, suddenly feeling so exhausted I swear that I could die. 

Then comes the loneliness, a final few thoughts before I drift into the blank space of sleep. As familiar as it is to have my mind wander down this path, the sadness is just as profound this time as it was the last. 

My brain shifts through faces of people I don't have much to do with anymore. 

Countless bandmates from over the years, Mike and Neely both being rather prominent. 

(Neely especially, with her dark hair and wide eyes and soft lips.)

My parents, with all their good intentions and normalcy. 

My brothers, both of them as successful as ever, and the perfect families of their own that they're currently spending their time building. 

And then there's a stark contrast, a bright flash of white and blue. 

A vision of Summer appears so very vividly in my mind, like a mirage on my bedroom floor. 

Summer, with her kindness and self-assured nature.

Summer, with her concerned expressions and trembling hands, shakily jotting her number down on a napkin. 

I told her I would call her if I ever needed anybody to drink with. 

Of course, I've done more than enough drinking tonight, but I can't stop thinking about that napkin, the hollow insincerity I originally believed that my words contained. 

Now, I'm not so sure that I was being dishonest at all. 

She offered to be my friend. 

God knows that having a friend would go a long way for me these days.

Tomorrow, I think to myself, hoping I don't forget by the time morning rolls around. I'll call her tomorrow. 

Then my eyes are closing, and I'm falling asleep ten feet away from the comfort of my own bed.

Summer

Though I'm inside, I can still feel the bite of winter. 

It finds some way to affect every part of my body, threatening to send me into a shivering fit. Still, I do not dare to move a muscle. 

Here I sit: stationary, bare, and completely vulnerable as some forty sets of eyes take me in.

The quiet group's gaze travels over my body, taking note of every nuance and imperfection. Then they go back to their canvases, fervently copying my form. 

Even after all these years, I find the corners of my mouth twitching with pride. I bite back my smile. 

This relatively small, mostly male art class is one of a few academic jobs I've taken. 

Though the environment is certainly cleaner and more sophisticated than the apartments of the starving artists I attract, there's something terribly stiff about all of it. 

I find myself having to put my full focus into keeping my back straight, my expression mum, all the while repetitively telling myself that no, I do not have to pee. 

However flattering it is to be considered worthy of such a job, the feeling of scrutiny that I find myself under whilst these students draw me is unreal. Strangely enough, it is able to completely break me down, then build me back up again just as quickly. 

I force myself to hold still, feeling the intensity of the artists around me smothering me already, before I can even look at what they have created. 

In order to keep myself from getting much too antsy, I focus on the radio in the background, which hums with whatever is playing on UNO's MavRadio station. Some guy with a warbling voice yells over an acoustic guitar, which he seems to be murdering, by the sound of it.

Though it doesn't do much to calm my nerves, it isn't entirely unenjoyable. 

Once the clock reaches twelve o'clock, a bell rings, dismissing the class. 

Slowly, the artists rise to their feet, stopping to examine what they've been able to get done today. Then they gather their things and head for the hallway, some of them looking much prouder than others. 

Once the last artist grabs her backpack and exits the room, the professor turns to me and smiles. Though I could certainly do it myself, he reaches for my white robe and hands it to me. 

"Good work, Miss Stevens," he says. Beneath all his scruff, I can see his face reddening. 

I choose to ignore this fact as I take the robe from him. Relieved to be offered at least some warmth, I drape the garment over my shoulders before tying it at my waist. 

When I stand back up, the professor is still staring at me expectantly. It occurs to me that he is waiting for a response to his praise, as if he, too, deserves a reward for good behavior. 

I force a smile onto my face. "Well, thank you, Professor..." 

"Stewart," he fills in my blank. 

"Stewart. Right." I nod. "Thanks, Professor Stewart. Although I think you should really be applauding the students. They're the ones working hard. All I'm doing is holding very, very still." 

He chuckles. "Well," he says. "You are very good at that." 

I stop, attempting to take him in as subtly as possible. He isn't my type, — too old, rugged to the point of near messiness. 

He sports a bushy beard/mustache combo that would only be accepted by college faculty on the face of an art professor, round, gold-rimmed glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. 

Oddly enough, the first thought that comes to mind when I look at him is that of a skinny, artsy Santa Claus. 

Jolly Old Saint Nick or not, it is abundantly clear that he is utterly charmed by me, — perhaps moreso than he should be. 

In spite of any wife or kids he might have, he clearly has his eyes on the twenty-something who just posed nude in front of him for an hour. 

Though I am unlikely to return his interest at any point, I force my polite smile to stay in place just as I had kept my legs poised a few minutes ago. 

As with all the men in my life thus far, I figure I ought to act flattered for him. I've found that that gets me places. 

"That's nice to know." I giggle, grabbing my canvas bag from behind his desk and heading in the direction of the bathroom. I can feel his eyes on my back as I go. 

"I'll see you soon, Professor Stewart," I promise. 

"You as well, Miss Stevens." 

I grin as I close the bathroom door behind me. 

He's wrapped around my finger now, there to do whatever I might need him to in the future. 

Dirty as it may sound, I am certainly no stranger to favors, – though they are much more often done in the spirit of helping myself rather than anyone else. 

I drop my robe once again before reaching into my bag for my clothes. I pull every article on from my bra to my coat rather quickly. As I do this, I wonder why I could stand naked before Professor Stevens and his pupils, but couldn't redress while he watched. 

Once I am once again fully clothed, I examine myself in the mirror, tying my hair back up and reapplying my lipstick. 

With that, I step back into the classroom, waving at Professor Stevens on my way out. He waves back rather gleefully. 

Once I'm back inside my car, I am surprised by the sound of my cell phone ringing. I stop before putting my keys in the ignition, reaching for my bag. 

I pull the phone from its place at the bottom of the bag only to see an unfamiliar number displayed on the exterior screen. I frown, considering whether or not to answer. Finally, I have an ah-what-the-hell moment. 

I flip the phone open and press it to my ear. "Hello?" I greet the caller primly. 

"Uh, hi," a male voice responds. The guy sounds young, nervous, maybe slightly congested. "Is this... Summer?" 

"Yes, it is," I reply. "And if you don't mind my asking, who am I speaking to?" 

"Oh, shit," the guy curses. "I forgot to tell you... Sorry..." 

Jesus. This dude is either made of social anxiety or high out of his tree. 

"It's okay," I tell him. "Take your time." 

"Oh, uh... Yeah. Okay." The guy seems to take a moment to compose himself. He clears his throat before speaking again. 

"This is Conor," he says. "From the party and the café and the record store and... The alley." 

Suddenly, recognition dawns. 

Oh, yes. 

Conor. 

How could I forget him, with his bloodshot eyes and weak stomach? 

"Ah. Conor." I smile to myself, leaning back in the driver's seat of my car. "So, I guess you decided you needed a drinking buddy after all, huh?"

He huffs out a half-laugh. "Yeah, something like that. Maybe just tonight, though. It's kinda lonely around at my place..." 

I raise my eyebrows. "You want me to come over to your place and keep you company?" I ask. "Wow, Conor, what kind of girl do you think I am?" 

"No, no, no!" The words leave his mouth quickly, filled with panic. I don't know whether to laugh or feel sorry for him. "Nothing like that. I actually feel kind of... Sort of stir-crazy, just stuck here... In my own house." 

"Gotcha," I reply. "So, you want to get out for a while?" 

"Um... Yeah. Yeah, that would be... nice." 

Good God, poor kid. He can't even get through half a sentence without stumbling over his own words. 

"Well, luckily for you, I've got a party I'm going to tonight." 

"Oh, yeah?" 

"Yup! I'm on alcohol supply duty, too. Maybe you could meet me at Spirits and Things around 11:00?" I ask. 

"Yeah," he replies. "Yeah, that sounds good." 

Though it's apparent that he's nervous, I can't resist the urge to make him squirm just a bit more. "So... It's a date, then?" 

He pauses. For a while, I think he's hung up. Hell, maybe he died with me on the line. 

Then I hear his meek voice pipe up again. "I guess it is if you want it to be." 

"Then it is," I say. "See you tonight." 

I close the phone. 

I smile to myself as I turn the key, the engine of my car coming to life. 

A date. 

That, apparently, is as far as drinking buddies can go.


	4. four

_**Summer** _

I'm roaming the aisles of Spirits and Things at 11:00 PM, picking up flavored liquor and miniature bottles of vodka, when Conor arrives.

He comes to stand beside me, much more nonchalant than I'd expected, hands jammed in his pockets.

"You're gonna need to get some whiskey," he tells me.

I turn around, offering him a smile. "Oh, will I?"

He nods, looking rather serious. "If you want it to be any kind of party, yeah, I'd recommend it."

"Alrighty then." I step back from the shelves. "Pick your poison."

He reaches for a thick bottle full of rich brown liquid. I pick up a bottle of raspberry vodka and beckon him to follow me towards the checkout counter.

After I pay fir our alcohol, we head out into the parking lot towards my car. Conor walks a shoulder's distance away from me, pulling his sweatshirt close to him. "Jesus," he mutters. "It's cold out here."

"That it is." I unlock the car and open the driver's door. Conor walks around and gets in from the passenger side, the bag of alcohol in his lap.

I turn the key, starting up the engine and radio. Warm air flows through the vents, cutting through the cool of the winter's night.

"So, Conor," I say as I back out of the parking space, "how's the first week of your twenty-first year been?"

I register his shrug out of the corner of my eye as I turn onto the freeway. "Nothing to write home about, really," he says. "I've been trying to write some music. Oh, and definitely drinking a lot."

It is at that moment that I hear the definite 'glug' sound of a drink pouring. I cast a cautious glance over to the passenger side, only to see Conor with his head tilted back, a silver flask pressed to his lips.

I resist the urge to slam on brakes as I realize exactly what's happening.

Half of me is livid that this little shit is drinking _in my car,_ putting us both at risk of being arrested. The other half is impressed that he managed to pour whiskey in a moving vehicle without spilling it all over the damn place, because seriously, how did he do that?

However I feel about it, I find myself hissing at him through my teeth as I continue driving. " _Conor!_ "

He looks over to me, wide-eyed and demure, as if he's completely unaware of anything that he might be doing wrong. He pulls the flask away from his lips, shrugging after wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Sorry," he mumbles, not sounding very sorry at all.

I roll my eyes, focusing on keeping my driving as legal as possible now that I know exactly what kind of passenger he is.

As soon as he seems to figure out that I'm not going to kick him out of the car, he reaches over to fiddle with the radio.

I cut my eyes at him again. "What are you doing?" I ask.

"Finding music," he replies, turning the dial further. "I'm not gonna listen to this place's shitty excuse for an alternative station."

Soon enough. MavRadio is blaring from the speakers. Conor leans back in his seat, taking another swig from his flask.

"Better," he announces, a quiet triumph.

"Wow," I say. "You seem sort of... _cocky_ tonight. What's gotten into you, - liquid courage?"

"Only the best."

"Yeah, I can tell. You'll have to give me some when I'm not driving."

It is only then that I consider something rather important. If he's already this relaxed, then that probably means he had been drinking before he left home. Which means he might have...

"Please tell me you didn't drive in your condition," I tell him.

"No," he says. "I was counting on you to be my designated driver, actually. But seeing as how you have plans to get wasted..."

I snort. "Oh please. I'm no lightweight; I can do both. I am a woman of many talents, Conor."

"I'm not quite sure it works like that," he says. "But I've never been one to shy away from danger, so, hey... I guess I kind of trust you."

I laugh. "Kind of?"

"Yeah. 'Kind of,' " he confirms. "That's the best I can do for a practical stranger."

"I think you can do better for a drinking buddy who took care of you when you were throwing up."

That makes him go quiet for a while. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet, his newfound confidence seemingly dashed in favor of boyish sincerity. "Thanks for doing that."

He sounds so genuine that I almost regret poking fun at him in the first place. "You're welcome," I say. "I felt really sorry for you, y'know."

He chuckles, a sound full of bitterness.

"Yeah..."

He speaks quietly now, as if admitting some sort of defeat.

"...a lot of people do."

The awkward silence sets in as soon as those words fall from his lips, leaving us swimming in a stalled sea of the air conditioner's hum and the post-hardcore song on the radio.

Conor breaks the silence with a casual question. "So, where are we going?"

I answer quickly, relieved to have a simple topic to discuss.

"My friend Julie's house. She's an art student down at UNO, - we met that way. She's a little bit older than us, moved all the way here from Florida. Said she wasted most of her life, so she's going back to school now to try and make something of herself. She's getting her Bachelor's next week, so she and her boyfriend wanted to do a little something to celebrate."

"Huh. I used to go to UNO," Conor says. "I thought I wanted to be an English major, but it turns out I don't like going to college much more than I liked going to Catholic school. And at that point, I'd been playing music for ten years already, - I just had to accept that I'm not good for much more than that. That's my calling."

I'm taken aback by that last statement. "I'm sure you're good for more than _just_ music."

He laughs that half-assed laugh again, - a sound that can only come from someone who is painstakingly attempting to hide his misery. "Not much more."

Before I can object to it, I notice him taking another drink out of his flask. I cringe.

_He's going to be hammered_ _before_ _we even get to the party._

As I continue to drive, we pass through one of Omaha's more upscale areas. A slew of new townhouse developments pass by my window, followed by a couple of fancy restaurants.

Everything around here has long since closed for the evening, - the residents of the newer, better Omaha don't have much use for late night runs to liquor stores or rendezvous with strangers in alleyways.

They're all inside, comfortable, sleeping in the lap of luxury.

And here we come: the hooligans, interrupting their peace as we drive with our windows down and the radio on full blast.

The guy on the radio lets loose an anguished howl as I think about what Conor said about his music.

 _Ten years_. If he's only twenty-one now, that would mean he's been doing it for...

"How long have you been making music again?" I ask.

"Jesus, - since I was like, ten," he answers. "Recorded some demos when I was thirteen. Joined a few bands not long after."

"Well, damn." I laugh. "You seem rather nonchalant about being a child prodigy."

" _Prodigy_?" His voice is filled with incredulity as he repeats that word back to me. "I wasn't really a prodigy. It just seemed like the natural thing to do: I liked to write, I knew how to play the guitar, and some girls made me cry in middle school. And 'prodigy' is quite the label to put on someone without even hearing the music, don't you think?"

"I mean... yeah," I reply. "You wrote and recorded your own music as a kid, and stuck with it. It's like it was what you were meant to do. I had lots of hobbies as a kid, and none of them ended up creating a career."

He seems to consider this for a moment, taking a long swig from his flask. After a moment, he screws the top back on, speaking once again with a voice that is slightly rough from the burn of alcohol.

"So you didn't pose for the neighbor boys?"

Though I know he doesn't mean anything by it, - at least, I _hope_ not, - that remark makes the back of my neck prickle.

My flace flushes as I tighten my grip around the steering wheel.

Thank God it's dark and Conor's drunk, or he'd would be able to see exactly how flustered I am.

"No," I respond, trying my best to keep my voice calm and level. "I didn't start taking my clothes off until I was a bit older."

"Oh. Okay."

That's all he says before that awkward quiet comes back and the regret starts to set in.

Suddenly, I wish I weren't currently behind the wheel, trying to find Julie's house.

I wish that I could, in good faith, snatch the flask from Conor's hands and guzzle down whatever whiskey he had left.

As the mood grows heavier and heavier with the silence, I find myself questioning why I'm doing any of this, - why I offered my phone number, my company, and my time to this guy who doesn't even make art.

Why am I taking him to my friend's party? Why am I letting him drink in my car?

Is it just that I pity him for the parts of himself he's shown me thus far? That's a very real possibility, considering there are quite a few things that make him seem rather pitiful.

Is it his limited ability to stomach alcohol?

Could it be the way he stutters, the slight lisp following nearly every sentence?

Perhaps it's just his personality: his goofy, aloof nature. His apparent lack of tact.

Whatever the reasons for his unlikability, one question points the blame back towards me, that being: have I really fallen so far that this is what feeling sorry for a person does to me?

Or is my sympathy for him the result of that other possibility, — a possibility that is definitely the worse of two evils?

Is it the fact that, lately, no matter how often I've taken my robe off and who for, the empty feeling deep within me has stayed exactly the same? The thing that's greeted me when I've crawled into bed at night; that same old monster that I've had to face, again and again, burdening me with that stupid emotion that I had vowed to stop feeling?

It isn't a pretty thought, but it is something that I'll have to admit to myself until I can drink it away: I, Summer Dawn Stevens, am beginning to feel kind of lonely.

Against my better judgement, I find my eyes wandering back to the scrawny guy in my passenger seat.

Sure, I don't know much about him. And yeah, he might be proving himself to be just a bit of an asshole.

But he offered to at least be my drinking buddy, which at least suggests some amount of consistency, if not much meaning.

He'd volunteered to keep me from being alone, if only for a little while.

T _hat's all that I need_ , I tell myself. Just an occasional friend.

Hell, — I don't even have to like him all that much while we're sober.

In my experience, alcohol tends to help quite a bit with that.

_**Conor** _

We haven't even arrived at her friend's party yet, and I'm already pretty sure that Summer thinks I called her a whore.

It wasn't what I meant, really, — it was just what slipped out, promptly making me wish that I could punch myself in the face without her judgment.

Not that I haven't earned that already.

She doesn't talk for the rest of the drive as we travel through the richer parts of West Omaha. I spend the remainder of the trip staring ruefully at the flask in my hand, feeling somewhat like a scolded child as I try my hardest not to think about the phantom burn of acid at the back of my throat.

I don't know how long it is between the time the offending words leave my mouth and the time Summer parks her car in front of an upscale townhome. Whatever the case, things feel even more awkward once the background noise of the engine and the radio fade away.

"We're here," she announces as she pulls her keys from the ignition. She unbuckles her seatbelt and throws her door open, stepping out into the night without looking behind her. "Are you coming?"

"Um... yeah." I shove the flask back in my pocket, one hand inching towards the buckle of my seatbelt, the other for the bag from the liquor store. "Yeah, I am."

Summer closes the door without a reply, wordlessly waiting for me.

I follow as she walks up the driveway in her high-heeled shoes. She stops in front of the door, grabbing ahold of the gold-colored knocker and rapping it against the door three times in quick succession. As I ponder the fact that this is the first time I've ever seen someone actually use a knocker before, the door opens, revealing a tall black-haired girl.

Summed squeals as soon as she sees her, throwing her arms around the girl's neck. "Julie!"

Julie laughs, hugging her back. "Summer! It's so great to see you—"

She stops, seeming to notice me cowering behind Summer like a drunk, timid puppy.

A sly smile spreads across her plump lips. "Who's this?" she asks.

Summer pulls away from her embrace, looking over her shoulder as if she had temporarily forgotten my existence before looking back to Julie.

"This is my new friend, Conor," she says. "He didn't have any plans for tonight, so I invited him to tag along."

"I see." Even in the dark, I can see the things that Julie's sparkling eyes are suggesting. Before I can decide how to clear up that it isn't what she thinks, she steps aside, waving her hand at us. "Come on in, y'all. The party's just getting started."

I follow Summer and Julie inside the townhouse, closing the door behind me.

The place is hot, packed to the brim with artsy types, all chattering and drinking and smoking and belonging.

Summer weaves through the crowd with ease, stopping now and then to greet someone, offering them her wide smile and light giggle before brushing right past them just as quick. I trail behind her, feeling clumsy, out of place, as I carry the heavy bag of full liquor bottles.

We soon find ourselves in an all-too-small kitchen. Julie takes the paper bag from my arms without warning. "Let me take those from you, hon..."

I nod at her, my tongue feeling just as thick as it has since I slipped up earlier.

Underneath the heat of the kitchen light, as Summer, Julie, and an unseen third (and possibly fourth) party converse and laugh easily, I become aware of just how tense I am. I reach for the whiskey bottle and refill my flask.

Summer seems to take notice of this as she turns back towards me. She giggles again, sending a conspiratorial look back towards Julie.

"Looks like Conor's getting the party started," she says. Suddenly, she reaches for my hands, pulling the flask from my grip as my eyes go wide.

She chuckles before unscrewing the cap, throwing her head back as she downs a good portion of my drink. As soon as she's had her fill, she pushes it back into my hands.

She wrinkles her button nose as she speaks again. "God, that's strong. I think I'm gonna make myself a girly drink." She turns around, platinum ponytail swinging over her shoulder. "What say you, Julie?"

"I say you're a pussy," Julie shoots back.

Summer whips her head back around, rolling her bright blue eyes. "Whatever," she mutters, reaching for the bottle of raspberry vodka and a Solo cup.

🖤

For about an hour, I stand quietly, sipping whiskey while I watch Summer down several mix drinks, then work the room.

She talks to a guy who looks like Johnny Depp, her face mere inches from his.

She pecks a guy who resembles Crispin Glover on the lips, both of them pulling away with a laugh.

She grabs Julie by both hands when some upbeat hiphop song comes on, pushing people to the side as she pulls her to the middle of the floor.

"Make way for the art school graduate, people!" she shouts all too loudly. "She's a very important person, you know!"

Julie laughs as the crowd thins out, heeding Summer's words. I think that it would be nice to have her at my next show, considering the way she gets people to listen to her.

She pushes Julie onto the couch before crawling into her lap, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

As the song continues, Summer moves her body against Julie's, all too sleek and graceful. The rest of the party, — an overwhelmingly male crowd, I'm beginning to realize, — responds with a resounding whoop.

"Fuck yeah!" the guy behind me shouts.

Summer turns around, shooting a smile in his direction before continuing the impromptu lap dance that her friend has apparently earned. Julie just laughs, her hands coming to rest on Summer's hips.

Face burning, I go to take another sip of my drink, only to find that I have once again drained my own supply. Still, I remain rooted to the floor, watching the spectacle that the girl I came with is making of herself. At this point, I don't think I could walk away if I wanted to.

I watch, more than a bit transfixed as Summer continues to move to the music, trying not to think of the implication that I made in the car earlier.

I jump as the guy standing beside me whistles. "Damn," he says. "She is really... _something._ "

I clear my throat, speaking what I think is the first word I've said in hours. "Yeah."

The guy, — another ruggedly handsome actor type, — turns to meet my eyes, grinning like the Cheshire cat. "Jesus, man. Do you know her? You look like you're about to fall out from the blood flowing to all the wrong places."

"I kind of know her," I say. "Not very well, but... we came here together."

The guy snorts. "You might've been the one she came with," he says, "but it looks like she might be leaving with my girifriend." He motions back towards the couch, as if I need reminding what we're talking about.

_I really don't._

I shake my head before abruptly changing the subject. "Mind if I go outside for a cigarette?" I ask. "It's pretty crowded, so I don't want to smoke in here..."

The guy grins. "Of course I don't mind. In fact, for the right price, I'd give you something other than a cigarette to smoke. Just don't tell Julie."

We both look back over to the girls on the sofa, laughing as the song changes to 50 Cent's "In Da Club."

"Go, Julie! It's graduation day..." Summer yells, her words just slightly slurred. Julie buries her face in her neck, feigning embarrassment.

I turn back to Julie's boyfriend. "I don't think she'll notice, trust me."

"Alright. Follow me outside, then."

🖤

Fifteen minutes later, I'm alone in the fenced-in backyard, smoking a joint in a plastic lawn chair.

I inhale, feel the haze of the weed mingle with the fog tge whiskey has already cast over my brain, then tilt my head back, releasing a puff of smoke towards the star-dotted night sky.

My eyes fall closed as I just sit there for a moment, listening to the commotion still going on inside. I assume that Summer isn't still giving Julie a lapdance, but I can't be quite sure.

Not that I'd need to see it if she was.

I sigh, bringing the joint back to my lips.

Once again, I've found myself at a party, just to drink and smoke pot. Isolation seems to come for more than I come for it nowadays, — my most developed interpersonal relationships are the ones that I have with various controlled substances.

Even when one of the most beautiful women I've ever spoken to buys my liquor and drives me to a party, then gives me and some hundred other guys the treat of seeing her dance on another hot girl, I find myself back in the yard, the solitude calming my racing heartbeat.

I want this.

Not just the weed: the moon, the quiet, the biting cold.

What the hell is wrong with me?

As I wonder what the answer to this age-old question is, — _what the fuck is up with Conor? —_ I hear the sound of someone settling into the chair next to mine. "That's not tobacco, is it?"

I crack open one of my screwed-shut eyes, only to see Summer standing before me, tinted blue with moonlight.

Before I can even consider them, the words crawl up my raw throat. "Would you call the cops if I said no?"

She laughs, and it's fucking _music._ "Oh, Conor," she sighs. "You clearly don't know me at all."

Then, just as she did with the flask earlier, she's swiping the joint from between my fingers, pulling it to her lips. I watch with amazement.

"Careful, — wait, how the fuck didn't you burn yourself?" I ask.

She blows out a puff of smoke before carefully passing the joint back to me. "What'd I tell you earlier? Talent!"

"That... wasn't exactly what I was expecting when you said you were a talented woman, but okay." I examine the joint, — it's on its last leg, but I think it'll be good for one more toke. I take a quick puff, trying not to think of how Summer's lipstick has stained the rolling paper.

"What did you think my talents were, just out of curiosity?" she asks. "Dancing?"

"I might've guessed that one," I reply, stubbing out the smoldering joint, "but you really proved it back inside."

"I thought you might like that." Her voice is laced with a definite edge of pride.

"Oh, I'm not even sure that 'like' would be a fitting term for it. It was... you were..." I stop myself, coughing a few times before finishing my sentence. The air is suddenly too thick out here, carrying smoke, sweat, and perfume.

"You were something," I finish, pulling my elbow away from my mouth.

Through the dark, Summer's bright blue eyes glow. "A good something, I hope."

"A very good something."

She grins, looking unsuitably shy. Once again, I feel my face start to burn.

I figure now is my chance to clear my conscience, since we're out here alone, both of us fairly inebriated.

I clear my throat before starting. "Listen," I say. "I'm sorry about what I said earlier, in the car. I didn't mean it in that way. It's just..." I shake my head. "I'm fucking stupid sometimes, Summer. I hate it, but it's who I a–"

"Conor," she interrupts me. "Stop it."

Just as all those people cleared the floor for she and Julie earlier, I find myself listening to her immediately, my mouth clamping shut.

Summer holds up a long finger, signaling for me to wait. I watch as she shifts in her seat, rummaging in her pockets. Finally, she comes back up with something.

My eyes fall onto the object that she holds in her outstretched hand. "What is that?"

"It's an orange, silly." She says this as if it were the most obvious response to an apology in the world. "I took it off of Julie's counter, and I'm using it as our white flag." She extends her arm out further towards me. "Take it."

Feeling the corners of my mouth twitch, I shake my head again. "Summer..."

"Conor." Her voice is deathly serious. "Take. The. Orange."

I can't help but laugh then. Between the fact that I'm rather stoned and the edge in her tone, the whole thing is just too absurd. "Okay, okay. Fine."

With that, I take the orange from her, digging my fingers into the peel and stripping it back. Once the peel is gone, I pull off a slice, popping it into my mouth.

I chew and swallow, wincing at the sweetness mixing harshly with the already bitter taste in my mouth.

"There." I hand the remainder of the fruit back to her. "Are you happy?"

"Oh, very." She picks off her own slice and bites into it. "Happier than I've been in years."

Though I know those words are a terrible exaggeration, the smile never leaves my face as I watch her finish that orange off.

Inside, the party continues, and I suddenly couldn't care less.

With her by my side, I don't feel alone.


	5. five

_**Conor** _

The morning after the party, I wake up in an unfamiliar bedroom.

The ghost of a headache settles behind my eyes as I sit up, squinting at the sunlight flooding into the room. Perplexed, I find my focus fixed on the window, draped with thin, cream-colored curtains.

Pulling my knees up to my chest, I glance around the rest of the place, looking for clues as to just where I am.

The walls are painted a neutral off-white. One or two pictures hang in white frames, though I can't exactly tell what's inside them from here. Other than that, there's nothing particularly telling about it.

I breathe a sigh, beginning to feel the keen ache of a hangover spread throughout my body as the blanket of sleep begins to fade away.

Judging by the light, I don't think that it's too terribly late. Maybe it would make me feel better to just sleep for a little while longer.

 _Yeah_ , I decide. _That sounds like a good idea._

I stretch my sore limbs before collapsing back against the soft pillow behind my head. Pulling the covers up to my chin, I turn over on my side. I'm just about to close my eyes when I identify the peculiar shape lying beside me.

A body.

My already-ailing stomach turns as I take note of the pale hair strewn out across the pillow next to mine.

Holy shit.

It's Summer.

Just like that, I'm wide awake, sitting back up. Head spinning, I attempt to mentally recount the events of last night.

I remember the crowd in the living room, Summer and Julie's limbs all tangled. I remember the joint in my hand, the clear night sky. I remember Summer joining me in the backyard, wrapping her lips around the joint so easily, handing me an orange as a truce.

The memories stop at the orange.

I sit frozen, an unfamiliar bedspread wrapped around me, feeling nauseous. Summer's back rises and falls with her steady breathing as she sleeps, blissfully unaware of the panic overtaking me.

Have I really managed to do the same regrettable thing with her as I do with every other girl?

Did I really capture her sympathy, get blackout drunk, then get into her pants without even remembering it?

Shame steadily eating away at me, I throw the covers aside.

It's official: I've fucked it all up.

I pause just long enough to look at her as I swing my legs over the bed and pat the floor in search of my shoes, beginning the first steps to forgetting that any of this ever happened.

She slept in her makeup, - there's a lipstick imprint on her arm, mascara smeared beneath her eyes. Her hair falls every which way around her, appearing to take on a mind of its own. Every now and then, a soft sound will pass her lips, - maybe real words, some parts of her dreams that I can't understand.

I can feel my heartbeat in my throat as I swallow.

She's a wreck, truly, but I can't look away.

Even in such an utterly imperfect state, it is all too easy for me to understand how she has served as a muse to so many other men.

Ashamed of myself, I force myself to turn back around.

My mind echoes the dread in the pit of my stomach.

_You've ruined it_ _._ _Whatever the two of you were supposed to have, you have most certainly overstepped the boundaries._

I lean over, tie one of my shoes, consider how I'll get out of here, wherever I am. Of course, I can't stay focused very long, - not when Summer shifts and sighs again, reminding me that I'm _still here,_ with her.

Then I'm thinking of our boundaries again, - the ones that I could have only crossed if we had ever set any in the first place.

Drinking buddies. That is where I had drawn the line in our agreement.

Where she had drawn it was, in her words, at a date.

Much to both my disdain and amazement, the rolling nausea in the pit of my stomach lifts itself, transforming into the flip-flopping, fluttering feeling that makes me feel fifteen again.

Can you be drinking buddies with benefits? Or is the drinking itself the benefit?

Then I'm shaking my head, trying to clear my mind like an etch-a-sketch.

I can't do this.

Not now.

Not with her.

This girl, with her ruined makeup and bedhead and the sounds that she makes when she dreams, is absolutely out of my league.

There are so many other guys she could be spending her time with, - guys who actually socialize at parties, guys who could paint beautiful portraits of her, guys who are entertaining, even when they're sober.

Guys who know how to say the right things to her without floundering, actually earning her disarming, snaggle-toothed grin.

Guys who don't subsist off of whiskey, weed, and cocaine.

Guys who haven't been making themselves puke ever since they were kids.

None of those guys are me, so it's probably best that I move along now.

As much as it pains me, I make a promise to myself: if I've touched her once, - even if I can't recall it, - that will be the one and only time.

With that, I rise to my feet, deciding that it's time for me to go before I can second guess myself.

As soon as I stand, however, I hear a shuffling sound, followed by Summer's voice.

"Conor?"

She says my name, her voice all soft and sleep-tinged. I feel myself going weak in the knees before I can even turn around to look at her.

Knowing I've lost the fight, I do exactly that.

"Good morning," I manage weakly, trying not to focus on her too hard.

She's like the sun, burning bright, even in the smaller hours of the morning. She's lovely and vibrant, and it makes it hurt a bit to look at her.

She smiles at me, making herself all the more dazzling. "Morning."

She sits up, stretching her arms over her head. I'm tempted to look away as the blanket falls away from her body... only to reveal that she is still fully clothed.

Wait a second.

I look down, find that I, too, slept in my T-shirt and jeans. Once I am done feeling like a total dumbass, hope kicks in.

"Hey." I attempt to sound casual as I broach the subject, scratching at the back of my neck. "You and me, last night. We didn't, um..."

I pause, trying to think of the appropriate word to say.

Of course, no word seems right, so I simply leave her to pick up where I left off.

My face burns as I meet her eyes. "Did we?"

As soon as those last two words leave my mouth, she bursts into a fit of laughter.

"God, no!" she giggles. "You wish, Boy Wonder."

I don't reply, even as I find a smile coming to rest on my face, uninvited.

I wouldn't dare tell her that I kind of _do_ wish, - only I'd like to remember it, if we ever did.

She straightens her spine, shaking the wrinkles out of her mussed shirt.

"You got pretty blitzed last night," she tells me as she starts to finger-comb her hair. "We ate that orange together, drank a little bit more. By the time we came back inside, we were both pretty far gone, but especially you. Julie said you could have her guest room, and I went to make sure you made it to bed okay. Then I ended up laying down and, well..." She holds out her arms, indicating the bedroom. "Here we are."

"Ah," I reply. "So neither of us drank and drove?"

"Nope." She stands and begins to make the bed back up. "Good thing, too. By the end of the night, I was feeling pretty foggy myself." She pauses in the midst of folding a sheet over. "In fact, I think I might be working on a hangover right now."

I chuckle, crossing my arms over my chest. "That makes two of us, then."

She steps back from the bed, a sympathetic grin surfacing on her face, and oh God, her _eyes_.

Even when she's just opened them, they are so very striking. It's beyond easy for me to get lost in that color, blue as anything.

Looking at her, I find myself thinking of the beach that I escaped to once a year as a child.

The sight of the Pacific Ocean both frightened and charmed me.

I lagged behind, holding onto my mother's hand as Matt and Justin ran straight into the waves without hesitation. Even with the benefit of inflatable flotation devices on both my arms, I stayed rooted to the sandy ground.

Even then, I knew that the sea was a complex beast.

It was exhilarating, of course, to have something so vast and immense laid before you, something that you could dip your toes into and suddenly play an infinitesimal part of its make-up. However, it also terrified me, with all of the mystery and unpredictability lying beneath its surface.

It was lovely, but, despite all the efforts of my mom and brothers, I couldn't quite bring myself to let my guard down and trust it.

It took me years to get rid of the inflatable floats for this reason alone.

Summer's voice pulls me out of my memories. "You know there's only one thing we can do now, right?" she asks.

I blink, finding that I'm no longer that boy on the beach. I'm standing in a stranger's spare bedroom instead, looking at a beautiful, dirty-faced girl whose eyes sparkle like water beneath sunlight. "What's that?" I reply.

A wonderful gap-toothed grin breaks out across her face. "We've gotta go get pancakes," she announces, turning to walk towards the door. "Come on."

Though my stomach churns at the mere mention of food, I can't resist following her.

🖤

Summer drives us out of the more uppity area that Julie lives in towards the run-down part of town. Smack dab in the middle of a convenience store and a garishly painted real estate office sits an all-night diner with a beaten up sign.

Summer pulls into the parking lot of the restaurant, smiling as she puts the car in park. "Perfect," she says. "Come on."

I follow her out of the car.

A middle-aged woman with a bad perm smiles at us as we walk through the door. She leads us to a booth by the window, handing us each a menu after we take our seats.

Once she leaves, Summer begins poring over her breakfast options. I take a cursory glance at the menu, then decide not to even bother.

All of it is chock full of fat, sugar, grease. None of those things are my friend, hungover or otherwise.

Finally, Summer flips her menu shut. "I think I'm gonna get the pancake special, with powdered sugar and whipped cream." She looks up at me. "What about you?"

"A coffee," I say.

She frowns. "That's all?"

"Yeah. I'm not feeling so great."

I see something flash in those dangerous bright blue eyes, - something gentle, despite its intensity.

Concern.

It makes me feel guilty, sending my head into spiralling questions of why on earth this girl might possibly care for me.

She breaks eye contact as she rummages for something under the table, face still set in concentration. After a moment, she comes back up with a white pill bottle and some small, plastic-wrapped thing.

"Here." She slides both objects across the table.

I look down, only to find a bottle of ibuprofen and a single serving pack of saltine crackers.

When I look back up at her, Summer motions towards the crackers, still wearing her concerned face. "Eat them," she urges.

Though my mind reminds me of the fact that I drank all of that alcohol last night without having eaten anything the day before, I shake my head. "I'm not hungry."

She rolls her eyes. "You don't have to be _hungry,_ " she says. "It's only three saltines, Conor. Eat them."

I examine her face. She doesn't wear the same resigned expression that most of my friends have now when they try to talk to me about anything, especially my eating habits. Our arrangement is fresh enough for her to only hold a look of determination, as if she doesn't doubt for a single moment that I just need a little coaxing, some moral support in the face of my idiosyncrasies.

 _Or maybe she just really pities you,_ that awful part of my mind chimes in. _She must think you're a charity case._

My hands begin to shake in my lap as I consider what she might think is wrong with me.

Cancer. Some stomach condition. Heroin addiction. Cirrhosis of the liver.

Surely, she can't look at me and see through all the possibilities, the words that doctor offered my mom all those years ago popping into her mind immediately: _eating disorder, not otherwise specified._

I look at her again, try to see beyond the skin. I think of how her entire livelihood comes from her own body. Panic takes me into its grasp again as I realize that she might actually not be too far off at all.

It's like what they always say: _takes one to know one._

Wishing with every bit of me to take this thought away, I rip open the plastic and put a whole cracker in my mouth.

Summer's face lightens up as I chew. "Atta boy."

I don't say anything else as I finish that cracker, then eat the other two. Once every last one is gone, I crumple the plastic wrap into a ball, finding the nerve to look her in the eye again.

"Those were terribly stale."

She sighs, shaking her head. Pale blonde waves fall loose around her shoulders, stray strands of hair shining like white gold in the early morning sunlight. Once again, I find myself all too enamored with her imperfection.

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," she chastises me. "I mean, do you want to feel better or not?"

I almost tell her that this is a loaded question, but then I realize that, to most people, it wouldn't be.

Most people do want to feel better when they feel shitty, for whatever reason that might be. Most people dislike misery.

As for me, - well, I stay here. Most of the time, it feels kind of like home.

I can't tell Summer any of this, of course. I know that she wouldn't get it.

As it turns out, I don't have to reply. The waitress returns to our table before I can say anything, notepad and pen in hand. "Are you guys ready?"

Summer nods. "I think so."

"Great." The waitress flips open her notepad. "And what'll it be?"

We order, - Summer requesting her extravagant stack of pancakes, me, my pot of coffee. The waitress nods, returning with the coffee moments later.

Summer watches as I fill the mug that she brought me to the brim before lifting it to my lips.

She wrinkles her nose, and it makes her look oddly innocent. "I can't believe that people can just drink their coffee black," she says. "I've tried, but it's just so... bitter."

I place my mug down for a moment to reach for the bottle of ibuprofen she had handed me. I shake a couple of capsules into my hand, washing them down with more coffee before speaking.

"That was the way coffee was meant to be consumed, you know."

She scoffs. "Oh. I see. You're a coffee elitist."

I smirk. "Truthfully, I think 'purist' would be a more fitting term, but..."

She groans before leaning across the table, palms outstretched. "Give me that pot of coffee."

I chuckle, sliding it closer to her. She gives me a genuine, beaming smile in response.

"Thank you very much," she says.

I tip my head to her in acknowledgment. "You are very welcome."

I watch as she pours her own coffee, - slow, careful, delicate. She grabs three sugars, two cream, dumps them in. She grabs the spoon placed at her spot on the table, looking down as she stirs it all up.

"You aren't worried you're going to have a heart attack at the end of the day, after all that sugar?" I ask her, only half joking. She's got those pancakes coming to her soon, - coated in plenty of sweet stuff, just as she had requested. I'm pretty sure the last time I consumed that much artificial sugar at once, I was eleven years old.

Summer looks up from her coffee. She lets go of her spoon to raise her middle finger at me.

"You have to be the most needlessly pretentious person I have ever met," she says, her voice low, composed. "Fuck off, Conor."

Some people would surely be offended if someone like Summer said this to them. Hell, at any other time, I'm pretty sure I would feel the same way.

But there wasn't any real malice in Summer's voice, and the way that her lips are turning up at the edges gives her away.

I do my best to seem unimpressed, looking down at the surface of the table. "Actually, you aren't the first person to tell me that. How unoriginal, Summer."

I look back across the table, only to see the grin that Summer seems to be trying so hard to hide grow larger.

Then she bursts out laughing, - a laugh that is different from her usual girlish giggle. This laugh is loud, brash, and a little obnoxious, and I find it absolutely infectious.

Soon, I'm laughing along with her, causing my stomach to cramp up and my eyes to water.

I know that we're making absolute fools of ourselves, - I'm not even quite sure what was so funny, - but, in the moment, I don't care in the slightest.

Just as I did last night in the yard, I find myself feeling alive.

It's just as exhilarating as it is terrifying.

We're forced to compose ourselves when the waitress returns, placing Summer's heaping plate of pancakes in front of her.

"Here ya go," she says. "Just wave me over if you need anything."

Summer nods, wiping her eyes. "Thank you."

The waitress nods back at her. "Yes, ma'am."

As the waitress returns to the kitchen, Summer picks up her silverware and begins dissecting her pancakes.

As I had expected, the amount of sugary toppings piled on top is nothing short of remarkable, whipped cream and powdered sugar spread all over like snow.

I'd like to be repulsed, - I really would.

But that's kind of hard when the smell hits me, sweet and warm. Through no will of my own, I find my mouth beginning to water.

I pick up my coffee, taking another sip. Though that would usually satisfy me, it's cold comfort when the human form of temptation herself is sitting across from me, about to dive into something I would never in a million years allow myself to consume.

Watching Summer cut her breakfast into pieces, some strange mixture of envy and longing overtakes me.

She isn't like me, - she just seems so _normal,_ in spite of all the things about her that convince me that she's extraordinary.

She lets herself be happy, surrounding herself with people who seem to love her, rather than pushing them away. She doesn't look worried, unless she's looking at me, her strange new tag-along.

"Conor."

I come back to earth when she says my name, - not a question, nor anything too harsh. She's matter of fact as she waits for me to acknowledge her.

I try to pull myself out of the trap of my self-pity. "Hmm?"

Summer pushes a plate towards me, - one of the small ones, intended for appetizers. A sizable piece of one of her pancakes takes up most of the space on it.

"Just eat a little bit," she tells me. "I swear, it'll make you feel a million times better."

"Yeah, right," I reply. But my fork is already in my hand, and I'm beyond ready to slip up, just this once.

The reward almost outweighs the guilt as I take a bite. It's hot and soft and decadently sweet. This pancake is fucking _delicious,_ and I could probably go for a whole stack of them...

If I were anybody else.

I tell myself to think about this later as I polish off the bit of food that Summer provided me with. In a matter of seconds, the plate is spotless.

Unaware of the twisting feeling settling deep in my stomach, Summer beams at me. "See?" she asks. "I knew you had to be hungry."

Trying my best not to look suspect, I force myself to smile back. "Yeah. Those are really good."

"I know, right?" At this point, the first gigantic pancake is gone. She wastes no time diving into the next

We don't say much else for the rest of our time at the diner. Summer occupies herself with finishing her breakfast. I drink several cups of coffee, wishing for a cigarette. I almost light one up before a sign on the wall catches my eye: **NO SMOKING.**

After a while, Summer cleans her plate, then beckons the waitress to bring her our check.

Once she places the bill on the table, Summer pulls her purse into her lap.

I shake my head. "Don't."

She looks up, eyes wide. "Are you kidding? I'm the only one who ate."

"Doesn't matter," I insist. "You paid last time. And besides..." I try to ignore the heat of my face as I continue. "You did say that this was a date, right?"

I almost think that Summer's cheeks are turning pink, too, as she pushes her bag aside. "Yeah," she says quietly. "I guess I did."

"Yup." I pick up the bill, read the total, then place the necessary amount on the inside. I leave a decent tip for the waitress on top. I take one final sip of my coffee, then slide out of the booth.

"Ready?" I ask Summer.

She nods, following me towards the door.

**_Summer_ **

After breakfast, I ask Conor for the directions to his house. For a guy who likely has to take cabs a lot, judging by his drinking habits, he gives rather precise instructions. Within fifteen minutes or so, I'm pulling into his driveway.

"And we're here," he announces as I bring the car to a stop.

I turn the key, causing all the background noise of the radio, the air conditioner, and the engine to halt.

Conor doesn't seem to acknowledge that I'm watching him as he seems to run a check for the items he's brought along with him. He pats the pockets of his jeans and sweatshirt a few times before he finally seems to decide he's good. With that, he unbuckles his seatbelt and opens the passenger door.

I almost don't think he's going to even tell me goodbye as he turns around and walks up the driveway. I consider driving away, not wanting to look like I expect anything more from him.

_He paid for my breakfast, for God's sake._

Still, I sit and wait just a bit longer, drumming my fingers absentmindedly against the steering wheel. Considering things.

This whole thing is starting to feel out of character for me, I realize.

If there is one thing that I, Summer Dawn Stevens, am not, it's shy. My entire job description requires drawing attention to my bare body, giving parts of my intimate identity up for artistic interpretation.

I've never been afraid to make a scene or act on even the most random of my impulses. In many ways, I'm more of an actress than anything else, — I've feigned interest in even the most unappealing men, all because I knew that I'd get something out of it, be that money or just the slightest bit of overblown admiration.

Even last night, I had played that part: Summer, woman of the world, life of the party.

So why is it that, now that the sun's up and I'm trying to get rid of a vague headache, this awkward boy and his chivalry have the capability to make me feel so on edge?

 _I must just be tired,_ I tell myself. _I'm overthinking things, that's all._

Conor reaches for his keys and unlocks the door. After he pushes it open, he turns back around, waving at me.

"You can come in, if you want!" he calls.

I pause to think about it. Though I know it shouldn't, something about going inside his house feels like a commitment, some boundary that I probably shouldn't cross.

I think back to the way he acted when he woke up this morning, so nervous that we might have done something that he didn't remember.

Surely he wouldn't try anything now, right?

Even if he does, it's not like I'm a stranger to shutting people down.

That's enough for me to make my decision. I open the door, and follow him up the doorstep.

Wordlessly, the two of us step over the threshold into the house. It's cold inside, the atmosphere wrapping me in a familiar sense of emptiness.

It's clear that he lives by himself. I've seen houses similar to his many a time.

It's that typical twenty-something guy space, the kind that gives you the keen sense that the man living there probably still isn't used to his mom not doing his laundry.

A few empty bottles sit scattered across the counter. A half-empty bag of Wonderbread is the only food in sight. The television appears to have stayed on all night, playing some sort of campy alien movie.

"Sorry about the mess," Conor says, looking genuinely embarrassed. "I wasn't really expecting company, but..."

"But you invited me in," I finish. "Being a gentleman and all."

He gives me a small, shy smile.

"Yeah." He chuckles, jamming his hands into his pockets. "I guess so."

Silence settles in. It's awkward this time, unlike last night in Julie's yard.

Maybe it's because we aren't drinking and smoking anymore.

Or maybe it's the daylight streaming through the window, illuminating the almost golden undertones beneath his dark irises in a way that the light of Julie's kitchen never could.

"So..." Conor reaches up, scratches at the back of his neck. "I guess I'll, um... I'll see you around..."

"Yeah," I reply. "I'll call... soon."

He smiles at me again, — only this time, it looks a bit more like a pained grimace.

 _How the hell did things get so tense?_ I wonder.

Wanting to put an end to the discomfort as soon as possible, I speak. "Well, guess I'll head back home..."

"Yeah." Conor nods. "Drive safe."

Though it might have simply been by default, that last remark sets off yet another flutter.

"I will." Not bothering to think about how much more uncomfortable it might things, I lean in to give him a one-armed hug. To my surprise, he reciprocates, wrapping one thin arm around my waist.

When I look up, our eyes lock.

I freeze for a long while, taking in those honey-colored eyes again. I take note of his long, dark lashes, the freckles travelling over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

Even though I know he isn't my usual type, I have to admit: he is pretty damn cute.

I feel like I'm barely breathing as the silence goes on. Ridiculous as it is, I wait for the space between us to close, for him to take the next inevitable step.

If he tried, I'm beginning to think that I wouldn't stop him.

Finally, he speaks. "Summer?" he mutters.

I attempt to swallow the cotton-dry feeling in my throat. "Yes?"

"You..." He stops, pulling away with a soft laugh.

"...have whipped cream on your nose."

I reach up, wiping at my face. Surely enough, my hand comes away with a dot of sugary white fluff.

"Shit." I can't help but laugh as I back away from him. "You went the whole car ride without telling me that?"

"I didn't notice until just now, I swear!" he replies.

I shake my head. "Whatever." I turn back towards the door, figuring that I should leave now before I can embarrass myself any further. "I'm going to _actually_ go now..."

"Alright," he says. "See you soon."

"You will," I assure him.

And I think I mean it.


End file.
